Dear Friends: During the month of September, I plan to satisfy my hubris by drafting daily illustrations of mustachioed monsters. The set, in its entirety, will be called Monsters with Mustaches (MwM) and will contain 24 unique works. Each piece will have the dual characteristic of (A) containing one or more monsters, and (B) containing one or more mustaches.

Hunched, shivering, goose-pimply and bare, I assembled with other pubescent boys on the wet, slippery, and slimy concrete of our Junior High locker room after a pre-swim rinse. I could smell the dry chlorine in the air, and had already started prophesying to myself the inevitable ashy dander that would ensue that afternoon in the form of an anhydrous itchy epidermis.

In the fall of 1994, my lanky 10th-grade bones quivered while standing under oppressively-frigid rain in a field near my high school. Suddenly and without warning, my solar plexus was rocked by an unbelievable force that swept my feet from the ground, knocked the wind from my diaphragm, and pitched me airborne.

A collection of fictional letters for which I would be interested in knowing further details.

One of my high-school bands was named Factor 8 (think proverbial Eight Ball) and I played bass. My brother Brian was kind enough to dig up a little ear candy from "the early years." If you've ever been interested in knowing how a couple of pimply-faced teenagers interpret "alternative funkadelic hillbilly folk", by all means have a listen.

On Tuesday, I was sitting at my desk responding to an email when without warning, my eyebrows twitched and dozens of goose pimples formed on my neck as my body reacted to a disagreeable and breezy draft. I shivered and realized that there were cars honking while a strange and unfamiliar voice said, "Well, if I don't make it, tell my wife I love her."

There is a winding and irregular road in Brainerd, MN called the "Yee Yee Road" that exists for two purposes: (1) to provide a paved path to and from homes in the woods, and (2) to dispense titillating enjoyment to the hillbilly Benson/Schumann clan while they raced their rusted Chevy Citation over the hilly humps, with windows down, sans seat belts, unashamedly hooting, "Yee Haw!" repeatedly throughout the mid-nineties.

I've been in a few car accidents in my life--one of which sent my brother, my brother's friend, my Mom, and myself, soaring over an icy jump, howling in unison while we gripped the hand-holds of our fearlessly airborne Celebrity Wagon.

I read Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry again. Although I relish the book enough to be tempted to formalize a perennial reading, there's something about the idea of "planning" to read a book like this that just doesn't fit with the natural order of things.

I just got done hanging a print of Rembrandt's "The Return of the Prodigal Son" in my office. The print was a gift from my thoughtful dear sister-in-law JoAnne and has grown to mean quite a bit to me over the last year because of reading a book by Henri Nouwen of the same title--also from JoAnne. Read on for a picture of the painting.

Flagrant notational violence of the exclamatory--dare I say inflammatory--variety is rampant and must be extinguished before it does further harm. Ladies and gentlemen, grammarians and countrymen, it's time to raise public awareness of the overuse of exclamation marks. Allow me to introduce a new tool: the Exclamation Ratio (r).

In the Spring of 1994, Ryan (Sloot Dog) Van Slooten, Chad (Carrot Top) Schueller, and Mark (Sparkles) Benson founded the Hyper-Color Dance Squad (HCDS.) Heavily influenced by the provocative MC Hammer, the HCDS was most known for their matching outfits consisting of neon-yellow silky shorts, tight black shirts, dark shades, and Saucony sneakers.

The first time I tried an endo to impress some friends, my 10-speed Peugeot decided it was time to do its best imitation of a stubborn mule, causing my sans-helmet oversized biscuit to say "Hello Mr. Asphalt."

Recently, Mandy and I dropped nine (9) fazolies on popcorn at the AMC. Before sitting down, we made a pit stop at the automatic butter dispenser--a monstrosity with a single over-sized yellow button (the size of my fist) simply labeled, "Push for Butter."

I went into the woods a boy, and returned a man, for I have killed a squirrel. Like all men before me, I have reached the age of accountability, claimed rite of passage, and finalized my coming of age.

Chad, a childhood friend of mine, had a gerbil named Furball. Furball was a sort of runt--barely 50 grams--a disadvantage he lived with throughout his short 6-month life in a cage with some woodchips, rocks, and an oversized wheel for exercise. Furball was the Tiny Tim of Gerbilshire.

Growing up, due to my parents' responsible frugality when purchasing "dairy", my family saved gonzo moola while my knobby knees suckled instant non-fat powdered milk. Cousin, this is my story.

I can count on one hand, the number of people who have cut my hair. Growing up, I granted exclusive rights to my Ma. In college, I graduated to cutting my own hair, which meant that every quarter-year, I'd brush off the $12 Wahls, snap on a dismembered no. 2, and buzz myself an Astronaut-Heiny.

I recently made a hideously-fulfilling digital spy camera purchase and immediately concocted a filthy plan:

1. Infiltrate Blockbuster, act shady, and snap candid photo of unsuspecting clerk as brother-in-law pays for my movie.
2. Get Mandy to grin like batty tourist as I shake a fist and declare how I'm the smartest man alive.
3. Distract brother Brian by whipping out spy camera and snapping photo after betting him that he, "can't glance North and pick his nose at the same time."

Was I successful? Maybe if you read on, I'll tell you.

I just finished my inagural semester of graduate school at the University of Minnesota and it wasn't without anguish. This fortnight, my classmates were grumbling to our professor about how much work we were being assigned. His response:

The beatings will continue until morale improves; and by the way, Merry Christmas.

I have deep love for a certain, righteous, compact, duel-door, tri-cylinder, wretchedly sassy, sans-A/C, manual trans, 60 mph/gal, robin-egg-blue hatchback jalopy. Pinky is my pimpin' ride. Browse on Holmes, for this is how I roll.

This week, due to personal circumstances that I don't want to blog about, I've been reminded of how precious my wife is to me. Thanks to everyone who knows what's going on and has been helping us through this unsettling time. Here are some photos and a few words.

You see, I have this condition. It's my larynx. Whenever I try to speak a word with an open configuration of my vocal tract (AKA, a vowel), I end up sounding like some pimply seahorse hiding in a treasure chest in the middle of pimpleshire. It's not good, I'm telling you.

So long, Fall; it was nice knowing you. Every year, the time you get to stay with us seems to be shorter than the year previous. Maybe next November, you could stay for Thanksgiving. Mom would be so happy.

I wrote recently about taking a vacation from my problems and how I've found a restful refuge near where I work on the Mississippi river. The Hennepin Avenue Bridge is one of the places on the river for which I feel particularly amorous.

Dear Scarred Feet,

You might not remember me. We've met only once before--in the summer of 1987--for a brief but painful encounter which left you permanently marred and me unscathed but dirtied with your blood.

I'm the spokes of your Dad's Schwinn Cruiser, and I'm writing to say: "I'm sorry."

I went for a walk today over lunch. I put one foot in front of the other and slowly meandered through Minneapolis' North Loop, along 5th Avenue, past the condominiums, and down to West River Road on the Mississippi.

I go to the river for one reason: to run away--and today was not unusual.

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I, Mark Benson, self-proclaimed half-Mexican, and innocent victim of blue-collar crime, submit earnest testimony against the nameless and nefarious victimizer whom henceforth shall be known as the Burrito Bandit.

On Tuesday night, June 21st, at about 8:00 PM, my brother Brian got in a motorcycle accident. He's currently in the Intensive Care Unit at the Hennepin County Medical Center and the main concern is his legs. He had compound fractures in his femurs, fibulas and tibias and went through 11 hours in the operating room where orthopedic and vascular surgeons worked to save his legs.

Last night, Esther had her spring violin recital at the McPhail Center For Music in Minneapolis.

The recital was for students of Mary West and the level of skill displayed was astonishing.

Kids from 3rd or 4th grade, on up through high-school seniors played things that didn't seem natural. I was very impressed, and it's been a long time since I've listened to music with that high of quality.

Esther did a wonderful job, although she said afterwards that she was nervous about the fact that she wasn't playing her own violin (it's getting repaired), and instead, was playing May West's.

Have you ever had a dentist, while working on you, stop abruptly and say "oops"? Twice? Well I have, and this is my story.

I went to the dentist a few months ago for a check up and found that I had to have a cavity filled. My dentist Dr. Colazi calmly started with the normal routine by injecting a little Xylocaine (like Novocaine) in to the back of the inside of my cheek.

The instant he finished emptying the syringe and pulled it out, and said "oops".

The house next door to us exploded. It's not very often I get to write that! Mandy and I woke up very early this morning to a loud blast that blew out the windows on one side of our house, knocked pictures off the wall, smashed our fence, and burned our yard.